Zacharias's Tale
by Moirae333
Summary: Zacharias Smith is telling ghost stories. And he most certainly is not a cigarette. Minor Zacharias x Ron slash.


**Title: **Zacharias's Tale

**Writer: **Moirae

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre: **Dry Humour; Cheap Ghost Tale

**Spoilers:** Philosopher's Stone to Order of the Phoenix

**Period: **1996 and 1997 (Potter's sixth year)

**Pairings:** Ronald Weasley/Hermione Granger. Closet Zacharias Smith/Ronald Weasley

**Summary: **Zacharias is telling ghost stories. And he most certainly is not a cigarette.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The plot, however, is created by the writer and is not to be replicated by another.

**Writer's Notes: **This story was written the summer after OotP came out and therefore disregards some aspects of HBP. Thanks to Lady Hemlock for the beta job. And I believe it is awfully fitting to say, "Enjoy the show."

**Zacharias's Tale**

_a closet ron/zacharias_

"If you were to ask the boogieman if he was lonely, he would have replied, 'Of course not!'"

Zacharias Smith's common hazel eyes skim his audience--a small group of slack-jawed yokels . . . no, something tells me that isn't right. Zack's audience have their mouths gaped open, this is true, but they are hardly foolish listeners with redneck, southern accents, wielding a type of rice beer in their left hands.

Dumbledore's Army surrounds Zacharias, an impulsive organisation bent on world domination. Or is it an organisation bent on defeating the evillest--erm, greatest--erm, evillest--Dark Lord the twentieth century has ever seen? Either way, they are young, foolhardy and will be walking hand-in-hand to their deaths in a matter of years. Two years. Two years, four days, seven hours, thirty-eight minutes and forty-three seconds, to be precise. Of course, that doesn't matter because it has nothing to do with our tale. Or rather, Zacharias's tale, which he will now continue.

"If you were to ask the boogieman if he was lonely, he would have replied, 'Of course not!' and went about his daily business. After all, how can one know loneliness from its antonym, which the thesaurus tells me is companionship, if one hasn't known anything different from loneliness? The deaf girl doesn't realise she's deaf until she's told. Or shown. Whatever."

And Zacharias would have continued there, eventually reaching his point, if it isn't for a young girl with a crimson dot in the centre of her forehead. When inquired about, she doesn't even know what it--the dot--is for, but her name suggests an East Indian background, so she is now Hindu in this tale. Her twin sister is Padma Patil. By deduction, she can only be Pavarti Patil, Gryffindor. Or Ravenclaw. It is hard to tell them apart and Zacharias has stopped trying.

"Yes, Padma?"

"Pavarti."

"Whatever."

Pavarti rolls her, oh let us say . . . coffee-coloured eyes. No, that will not do. How about cream-flavoured eyes? Yes, I believe that will do nicely. Pavarti Patil rolls her cream flavoured, coffee-coloured eyes towards the dark sky as a God, let us say Shiva although she is the Destroyer, blows thousands of icicled white stars into existence across the infinite, ebony abyss.

"That's not how it begins," she states snobbishly, which isn't a pitiful excuse of this writer's ability to consecutively list words starting with the same sounds, which, she just re-researched, is known as alliteration. No, if she is going to truly write alliteration, it will be much more subtle and just, overall, well . . . _better_. Like in _Slytherin Jewels, _a short featuring the infamous Tom Marvolo Riddle. See footnote number three hundred and twenty-nine: S_lytherin Jewels_: un-archived, work-in-progress, not yet ready for human eyes but well-suited for them.

And we will now get back to our tale. Zacharias's tale.

Zack shoots Pavarti a quick glance, mentally relaying a message of unparallel annoyance that she never receives. Why Zacharias believes he possesses mental abilities is beyond reason; he has never shown the talents that mark a wizard as a true seer. He has ignored his failings in Divination; Zack just assumes his third eye has yet to be opened. Maybe he will steal that dot from Pavarti's forehead; it has to be doing something for her, after all. It isn't just another pretty decoration or war paint, as Zack refers to it. He just might fancy licking it--the dot--off one day.

Maybe the writer should take this time to appeal to your six senses--that is, present you, the avid reader, with details of the scene that was unfolding before your eyes. Or rather, maybe she will take this time to appeal, blah blah bloody blah, details of the scene that is unfolding before your typecast eyes.

Zacharias Smith is a Hufflepuff, which automatically brings a stereotyped image forth in your mind. Short, maybe a little bit chubby with tufts of mouse-coloured hair that curl slightly around his ears. His robes are a rich shade of golden-yellow with black stitching, rather smart when you take a second look at them. His eyes are a common shade of hazel, an ugly colour when you think about it. His fingers are stubby and dirt collects neatly beneath his fingernails.

And if I were to tell you he is a Slytherin, how will that image change?

But that thought is not necessary because Zack is, indeed, a Hufflepuff.

And this Hufflepuff is telling a ghost story before a bonfire on the eve of the Day of the Dead in Mexico. That is, Halloween. The bonfire flickers azure-orange flames toward the starry sky, giving off small bunches of greying smoke that fills the lungs of Dumbledore's Army with each breath they take. It is ash in their mouths, forgotten memories of childhoods in forests that no longer exist, baths in streams of adolescent hormones that osmosis-es-es . . . -es its way through their . . . never mind. It--the flames--shine brilliantly upon their robes--ruby, gold and sapphire--and illuminates the beauty of the young witches that the wizards will soon turn their fancy to, les they are. . . . Girls sit beside boys, boys beside girls and those whose sexuality has always been questioned sit beside the boys.

Bags of orange and black jub-jubes are passed between greedy fingers and carafes of spiked (with vodka because that is this writer's choice poison) pumpkin juice flow through their lips. Foil chocolate frog wrappers give the flames a slight emerald hue as they melt over birch and oak logs Hagrid easily chopped with one hand and with both eyes closed.

Zacharias, probably named for a prophet and Hebrew in origin, continues.

"The boogieman was born during the darkest of days, an unfortunate offspring of a demi-god dwarf of Norse mythology. The boogieman, of course, had many names and many identities. He appeared to some as a goblin or a shaggy black dog with huge teeth and huge claws. He was known as a padfoot, hellhound, barguest, gyrators, and church grim. They were legends and omens of death, destruction, and war. Upon seeing one, you would," he pauses, staring at his audience in turn before finishing with a theatrical tone, "die!"

Several girls suck in gasps of air and clutch a boy's arm. Any boy's, it doesn't matter whose because these are just ghost tales and boys are good to ward off evil spirits. According to Cho Chang, that is all they are good for because they are lousy kissers and no girl in her right mind would want to kiss--erm, exchange extensive amounts of saliva--with a boy. Just ask Hermione Granger.

Zack, quite content to imagine he is exultant when Susan Bones grabs his wrist, leans forward. The flames of the fire dance towards his face, scorching bits of mousy hair and tweezed eyebrow. "It so happens that, on the Halloween four years before the turn of the century--"

"It's five."

Zack snaps back, his eyes narrowing upon the Patil twin. "I beg your pardon?"

"The new century is five years away, not four," Pavarti replies, sounding uncannily like the know-it-all Hermione answering a question in any of her classes. She is such a toffee-nosed bint. "There was no year 'zero.' Therefore, the new century doesn't start till 2001. Hence, five years."

Zacharias wants to shut her mouth with his. Wants. Or so he thinks. Maybe he'll be content to lick off that dot. Maybe. "Okay," is the only thing he says before he goes back to his tale, which is perfect the way it is, who cares if he is the only one who thinks so. Constructive criticism is mean, and people shouldn't say mean things and cut people down! Zack thinks.

"So. Die. Yes. You die! Now, it so happens that, on the Halloween _five _years before the turn of the century, a barguest was haunting the halls of Hogwarts, lingering, you may say, and scaring the knickers off the girls and some of the boys. Those who wear knickers, that is. Which is something I wouldn't know about. Now, where was I? Oh yes, haunting.

"Dumbledore's Army immediately knew that something bad, something just terribly awful, was going to happen! And Malfoy and his cronies were going to help make it happen! How the Slytherins were going to do that, they didn't know. It's not important. Just know that they did."

At this point, Pavarti coughs--it is a cough that resembles, "Plot hole!"

And Zack continues.

"Malfoy, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Crabbe and Goyle packed with the devil, 'ol Beelzebub himself, as he was named in Matthew 12:24, and soon Hogwarts saw the first of what was expected to be many deaths. It started with Colin Creevey; he was found with satanic symbols carved into the fat of his back. When Dumbledore turned him over, onto his stomach, a gasp rippled through the corridors. Blood trickled from his eye sockets, dark and crimson, it flowed freely into his mouth, which was slacked open and empty. Colin Creevey. had his tongue. and eyes gouged out!

"What was started in our second year will be finished in our sixth."

Ronald Weasley laughs as he shoves his hand into the paper bag filled with sweets. "And what was started in our second year, Zacharias?" he asks through a mouthful of chocolate frogs. He attempts to shove in another, while his girlfriend Hermione Granger gapes incredulously at him. Those were her chocolate frogs! How dare he filch from her safely harboured PMSing-stash of sweets!

Zack exhales sharply, glaring at the interruption. This one, however, he does not want to silence with his mouth. "The extermination of the Muggle-borns, Weasley. This barguest was attacking the Muggle-borns of Hogwarts, finishing the work that was started four years ago," he supplies briefly.

" 'Uz it-ta 'arjes 'in?"

"What?"

Ron swallows after Hermione jabs her elbow into the crevice below his ribcage. She apologises for this act unenthusiastically with a dry kiss to his freckled cheek. "The creature petrifying people. Was it a barguest then?" Ron repeats.

The left eye on Zack's face twitches twice and the corners of his mouth curl as he stares at the freckle-faced, redhead across from him, the flame casting shadows over his ugly mug. Which he considers is an ugly mug, rather, because Zack will never admit to another boy being quite good looking. Especially in those scarlet and golden robes. No, Zack thinks Ron is quite repulsive, and he is so far in the closet that he is finding Christmas presents addressed from Father Christmas himself.

"Yes, it was a barguest. And now it's back. Understand? Good. Never mind that the barguest wasn't petrifying people and the killing style was definitely off, it was just the same creature." At this point, Susan takes her hand from Zack's wrist, having felt certain that the macabre horror of his tale is over. She is, nonetheless, wrong, and Zack carries on.

"Creevey was the first and he was far from the last. The last would come five months later, found floating upside down in the lake, her arms and legs and hair being chewed away by water mites whose fangs were larger than their translucent bodies."

More sudden intakes of breath. More girls-grasping-boys as if they will save them.

For a moment, Zack wants Ron to be sitting next to him. Only a moment, because Zacharias "common Hebrew middle name, probably something biblical" Smith does not think such thoughts! He is no fag, which means cigarette in the UK. And it is most certainly something he is not. A cigarette? The sacrilege!

So now that we have . . . or is it had? Don't they both sound correct? Damn that English language! . . . established Zack is not a cigarette, we can continue with our tale. Zacharias's tale, that is. Allow the Jewish Hufflepuff to fill you in on the middle of his tale, since he has already established the beginning and ending.

The middle goes as follows: "The barguest, with the help of Malfoy and his mates, murdered over half of the Muggle-borns of Hogwarts before it was finally vanquished by Dumbledore's Army. No more did the pupils have to glance nervously over their shoulders, fearful that scarlet-glowing eyes were watching them, waiting to tear them apart with sharp fangs and claws. The end." He says the last two words with pride, drawing himself up and staring round at his audience, a few of whom politely clap. Zacharias inclines his head with a small bow.

"That," Pavarti announces, "was the daftest story I've ever heard!"

"Oh yeah?" replies Zack indignantly. "I'd like to see you do better!"

Pavarti takes that as a challenge, as Zacharias knew she would. She reaches for Ron's (Hermione's) stash of chocolate frogs, helps herself to a few against Ron's (Hermione's) protests, and begins upstaging Zack, a pleasant smile drifting across her wine-coloured lips. "If you were to ask the boogieman if he was lonely, he would have replied, 'Of course not!' . . . "

Zacharias leans back and listens to Pavarti's tale with disinterest.

She is right. Hers _was _better. But he isn't one to admit that.

Just as he isn't one to admit he is a cigarette--erm, fag--erm, cigarette.


End file.
